Kingdom Come
by SilverCascade
Summary: Mello still has work to do, and losing a few pints of blood isn't going to slow him down. Matt has a favour to repay, which means tagging along for the ride. / Set between the episodes Father and Malice. Gen, with slight Matt/Linda in later chapters. [work in progress]


Part I: The Jester

* * *

**"I'm so confused it almost feels calm."**

**- Shane Jones, "Light Boxes"**

* * *

Matt was alone in the room, surrounded on all sides by slippery aquamarine. His hunger had been subdued with the night's take out - sweet 'n sour chicken, his favourite - and a pyramid of half-crushed cans cast a shadow that split his face in half. Light and darkness sat on a canvas of indifference. His brow furrowed suddenly, tongue wedged between his teeth as eager fingers worked left and right.

Growling, the boy straightened before curling his spine again. Three and a half laptops cast their glow around him, the point-five being repair job that meant a hundred dollars and takeout for a week. Not that the youth was aware he resembled a spectre; he was too absorbed in the game of trying to dodge the incoming barrage of half-rotted arms and legs. Though he stared at the screen, planning his escape from the building in which he'd somehow become trapped, he could feel something stirring in the room with him.

A manic crowing made him jump. He cursed at the feathered clock that roosted near his apartment - it was only near _his_ place, for fuck's sake - and threw down the controller in disgust. He hated birds. Pulling the cigarette from behind his ear, he slipped it between his lips. God, it was so _bitter _all of a sudden. Matt lit it up, taking a deep breath before sighing. Heat filled him, the thick taste of ash resting on his tongue, and he picked up the console to play a few more rounds. There'd be no sleep tonight, that was certain.

It was two hours later, at one a.m. in that poky apartment in downtown Portland, that the phone call arrived.

The buzzing threw off his concentration, and he swore before scrambling under the dented cushions to find and eradicate the source. He would've let it buzz on and into silence under any other circumstance, but he was near the Zombie, King of Rots level and wanted to turn it off to stop any future distraction.

"Where the fuck are you?" he muttered, more tired than angry, and the device, a small black piece he'd not bothered to upgrade in a long time, vibrated as his hand fumbled under the cushions. Curiosity took hold and he answered. "Yo, it's Matt."

There was a loud, rushing hiss, as if a fire was dining on something alive, and a short half-scream, half-gasp. The raucous roar of interference cut him short; he pulled the phone from his ear, glanced at it, and placed it against the side of his head again.

"I n-need... h -h - hhhh-" A violent, wet cough broke the hoarse whisper. "Help... me..."

The phone almost hit the ground when he let it go, but his other hand caught it. By the time it was against his ear again, the only sound was an empty tone.

It took him a full ten minutes to trace the call, after trying to call back but not receiving a ring. It seemed like his old friend had used every trick in the book to lose him, the fucker, but it was no match for skills honed by boredom. Matt grabbed his keys and puffy jacket, flicking off all the screens and pulling all the plugs. It wouldn't do to waste power for the short while he'd be away.

"You haven't changed at all, you dumb bastard," he said to the ghosts in the walls. "What did you get yourself into this time?" He turned around, plunging the room into darkness. "Still in Angeles, huh? Can't leave the fancy state alone."

The car hummed to life with a reserved rectitude, as if it knew its latest quest did not require additional troubles. Unable to believe he was doing this - but this was Mello, and fuck, if it'd been Near or anyone else from back there, back _then_, he would've still dropped everything - Matt lit another cigarette. The lighter hissed against paper, and he sighed, exhaling crests of smoke.

It was four a.m. on the interstate when he bit his lip and turned up the music. If he got caught up in Mello's mess again, if he so much as let himself be talked into anything - no, it'd be fine. He was different now, not quite the same naive little geek from Wammy's House. He'd help his friend and keep his end of the deal; he owed Mello a favour after the twenty-eleven fiasco, and though they hadn't spoken since, the unwritten pact still hung between them. He'd get out as soon as possible.

It didn't take a genius to know what Mello had been up to, but it sure didn't hurt that Matt held that status. "Can't keep your damn nose out of it. Is it that hard to leave Kira alone?"

Matt thought of nothing in particular as Daft Punk and Benga cycled through the CD player, twice, thrice, four times. Only stopping at gas stations to grab fuel for his car and fuel for himself - weak coffee that tasted like dead rats, candy bars that tasted like ass - he drove steadily. It wasn't long before the straight, clear highway gave way to the open roads, where dark dust rose as the car sped through the terrain. The location was very much off radar, meaning Mello's interests hadn't changed in a few years. How unsurprising.

When the end was in sight, he was awoken by the sight of half a building ablaze and exhaling more smoke than Matt had in the seven years he'd been enamoured with the habit. Fourteen hours on the road couldn't dilute the fact he was right about the fire; he didn't want to be right. He deserted the car a safe distance away, and took a few minutes to cover the last leg, feet thudding in time with the blood pumping in his ears. Heat rolled towards him in waves.

"Mello?" He felt foolish when he stopped and called, looking left and right through the insipid grey ash, only able to see through a limited, goggle-covered field of vision. "Mello, where the fuck are you?"

Directing his gaze to the ground, he scanned the rubble, working his way around the larger debris of crumbled concrete and jutting metal skeletons. Nothing. Not even a splash of black leather, or a glimpse of blond hair. Nothing at all.

"Damn it!" If he was too late, and it was likely, he didn't want to find - whatever would be left. But someone had to take care of the worst if it'd happened, and it seemed that someone would be him. Or so he thought, until a hand grabbed his ankle.

Matt didn't scream; he'd enough experience when it came to zombies not to worry. But so feeble was the hold on his leg that when he glanced down, it was pity that took him over fear.

A melting, silvery rosary clung to the scorched wrist.

"Shit."

The boy prised the fingers from his leg - the skin may as well have been on fire, it was so hot - and grabbed a discarded metal bar, a heavy, hot thing that made the leather of his gloves stick to his skin. Green eyes darted around behind yellow-orange lenses, searching for something to balance the bar against. A cinderblock lay beneath another mound of rocks, a corner poking out; he kicked aside the debris and heaved the block into his arms.

It was put into place, wedged under the opening of the rock. He jammed the bar into the crevice between stone and block. The limp hand was gnarled, broken nails scraping the dirt; Matt stepped back to avoid the clawing.

Navigating around the hand, he saw half of the torso, where torn, burnt leather hung from a red body, and the feeling of it all being too false, too unreal, vanished. This was real. He placed his hands on the bar - sweat ran freely between his fingers now, and his gloves were almost ruined - and heaved. The debris was heavy and unstable, smaller chunks rolling out with a clatter, and rocks bumped his head and shoulders. He flinched, but doubled his effort; air hissed between his teeth, and the chink of darkness widened.

A single blue eye twitched.

Matt stood, wordless, when the bloody, shaking corpse dragged itself from the sliver of black. Hand-claws dug into the earth, both flesh and stone ravaged by the flames and struggling to breathe. It might have been a man who'd entered the building, but it sure as hell wasn't one that was crawling out. The word "Jesus!" was pulled from his lips, a low exclamation of surprise at the monster before him.

And when he stood and took two shuddering steps forward, the hunch of Hyde prevalent in his stance, Matt found himself unable to look away.

The sky was a dull purple on one side and a fierce orange opposite, one wound bleeding into the next across the central slash from which light leaked. Matt didn't acknowledge the scenery for more than a moment, and, after another brief second of wondering whether Mello's blood would stain the upholstery, slung an arm around the body and bundled his friend into the car. He pulled away from the scene of the long-dead and instantly forgotten Los Angeles Mafia.

The drive back to civilization was long, but Matt took the time to place a phone call.

"Hey, Socky," he said, after the rings hand the phone, and the other lay on the steering wheel. Ochre-tinted vision was fixed on the road ahead. "I need a favour."

Glancing at the quivering heap in the seat beside him, nothing but dead weight slumped against the door, Matt rush from Mello's dramatic rescue only a few years back flooded him, adrenaline swirling through his veins, his breath hard and heavy, the endless ache in his legs after all that running. It was deja vu; hadn't those been the exact words he'd said to him then? I need a favour. Of course.

He stared ahead, talking quickly into the line. The youth on the other side was quiet, listening and most likely taking notes as Matt delivered instruction.

"The hell you doin' in Angeles, brother?" said Socky, and Matt shook his head.

"You really don't wanna know. Just take care of this, okay?"

"Gotcha." The line died and Matt exhaled, knowing at least one thing had been handled. The drive to the Red House Motel was long. He didn't dare turn on the music in case he woke Mello, who lay so quietly that he _had _to be asleep. The aircon was cool, and he dared not turn it up; that shit dried out skin like nothing else, and he was certain Mello didn't need that right now.

Slices of dawn peeked through the clouds when a cherry-red car pulled up outside the motel. The place was silent when he arrived, fireflies of lampposts scattering meagre rays across the ground. The car grinded to a halt. Mello was deathly still; Matt got out, and when he opened the door on the other side, his friend nearly collapsed. Thin trails of beige glistened at Mello's chin. He caught him, swinging one limp arm over his shoulder and dragging the body from his car. Wetness stained his shoulder, the coppery wet-penny smell of blood and rancid egg stench of vomit filling his nostrils. Matt winced as he kicked the door shut.

He headed for the main desk, hobbling under the wooden porch whilst carrying a too-heavy weight across his body. The glass doors were pushed open by the weight of a shoulder, and a faltering, apologetic grin sat on his lips as he faced the receptionist.

"Hi, how can I help you?" A young man with blond hair and white teeth picked at his fingernails. Taking one look at Matt and his slumping friend, he bit his tongue to suppress a grimace. Matt couldn't _not_ see the gesture.

"I've got a room booked. The name's Socky Gonzalez." His sentence split when his breath gave way: Mello was heavy for such a wiry little man. "It should be. Two singles. In one room."

Some furious taps on a computer and another dirty look later, the cashier nodded. "Pre-paid. How sensible. It's room 4D, and it's the third hall on the left." A swift nod towards the winding corridors ahead was all Matt was going to get. The keys clunked as they hit the wooden table.

"There a bathtub?"

"Huh?"

"Does the room. Have a bathtub?"

"Yeah, I think so. Why?"

"I think he's gonna - It's fine." Matt forced out a thank you, swiped the keys from the table, and began staggering away.

"Hey, is your friend alright?" There was a sudden concern in the voice, but Matt realised just how self-preserving administrative workers were: after all, if someone died in their motel, business would be ruined.

"He's hammered," he said, struggling to keep his tone even when the air was being forced from his lungs by Mello's futile attempts at movement. Winded, he continued. "Gonna make him sleep. In the tub tonight. So he doesn't hurt himself."

The young man took a deep sniff. "Is that blood? And puke? Christ."

Matt shrugged. "What can I say. Angry, deep drunk. Said the wrong thing. Then pow!" If Mello was anything like the man who'd saved him from his men just a few years ago, then the statement was still true. Still, it took but a few years to change people; you only had to look at Matt to see that.

"Just make sure he doesn't puke in the tub, alright?"

"Will do," he muttered, before turning his attention to his friend. "C'mon, Mells, you fucking idiot. We're almost there. If you move your feet, we might get there faster." His voice was no more than a whisper. Glancing up to check the cashier hadn't heard him, Matt found the blond nose deep in a magazine where superheroes in Spandex flexed on the cover.

They shuffled to the room, with Mello, by some miracle, actually moving his legs. Matt thought to what he should be doing: he _should_ be taking his friend to the hospital, where he could get proper treatment for what were likely to be third degree burns; he _should_ be calling up his crew back in Portland and telling them he'd be back in the morning, after he'd set Mello up with some resources to take care of himself; he _should_ be calling the police, because this was a dangerous man who was known to be working with the fucking _Mafia_. But he was doing none of those things.

Instead he unlocked the door with one trembling hand and the key, leading his friend, his proud friend who would tear him limb from limb if he awoke in a hospital. He ignored the urge to run from the blood, from the fright-induced sweat, vomit, and stained tears that covered Mello's front. He didn't call his friends until later that evening, huddled outside Denny's where he'd grabbed dinner, promising to be back in the state of Oregon within a few weeks; he had urgent business to attend to. He didn't call the police. What was the point? The mafiosi were dead by now. Mello's survival after all that time was pure, idiotic determination.

The room smelled like moths, a festering, tepid stink of those imitations of butterflies. Matt ignored it, pulling Mello in through the main room and into the bathroom. A hand curled around worn string, yanking it to spread blue-white light across dirty tiles. Matt peeled off his gloves.

"Ack, fuck," he muttered, heaving the body up and laying it in the tub. It did not take a medic to realise just how bad the damage was: half of Mello's face was soaked in blood, now drying with flecks of shredded skin. His arms screamed red, but weren't as torn as his face, and dirt, grey and brown and black, seeped into every pore. His usually immaculate hair was a rusty bronze and hung in chunks, matted together with blood. In the harsh light, specks of silver shone in the cuts; was that metal stuck in his arms? Fuck.

Though Mello's eyes were squeezed shut, it didn't worry Matt. The way his limbs quivered, a tremble like the flapping of a butterfly's wings, sharp and sporadic: _that_ worried him. Mello wasn't one to show pain, he knew, not explicitly anyway. And if his body betrayed what clenched teeth and balled fists tried to conceal, he had to be in agony.

Feeling helpless for all but five seconds, Matt began his task. To keep his mind off his clenching stomach and red red hands, he hummed. Short sounds bounced off the tight walls, whilst longer notes floated out through the gash of the open window.

The leather was still hot, and as he tried to peel off the jacket, a sickening tear made him stop mid-pull. His eyes widened: a strip of skin had peeled back, and the soft pink flesh underneath spurted blood. Matt stopped humming.

"Shit," he whispered again, pressing the skin - which had stuck to the leather, oh God - back against the tear. The blood didn't stop. Mello let out a low whine; it was painful to see him trying to control himself. "I'm sorry."

Pushing back Mello's hair, he tried to assess the damage to his face. The fringe was heavy, and, after struggling to move the clumped hair, something hot hit his wrist. He yelped and he drew back his hand to see a slice of melting brown plastic burning into his skin. _The hell? _Glancing down at Mello's face and seeing it in detail for the first time, he spotted the problem.

There was a still-melting gas mask attached to his skin.

"Damn," he murmured, peeling the hot plastic from his own skin. An angry red blister was all that remained, and it stung to move his wrist. "You idiot, what the hell happened?"

The way the mask clutched Mello's face reminded him of the muzzle of an Doberman, except this synthetic clamp held on to half of Mello's face rather than his mouth. _So that's where all the blood's coming from…_

Looking right, he scrambled through the cupboards, flinging open the doors and searching for anything that might help. A few dust balls sat in the corner, along with a brown bottle with a brown label that smelled like gasoline when uncapped. That was it. He was hoping for painkillers, or even some whiskey. Anything to ease the pain of what he was about to do. He was running out of options, and Mello was stirring even more wretchedly, cracked, shrinking lips spurting nonsensical words and stringy saliva. Matt reached for the shower hose and set it to cool. The dirt and metal had to come out first, otherwise infection would occur and he'd have no choice but to drop Mello into A&E. Squeezing Mello's wrist, he gave the warning.

"Dude, this might hurt. You can scream or whatever, no judgement. I won't make fun of you later." Mello's eyes opened in time to see the water. His head jerked up of its own accord, shrivelled mouth reaching for the substance that would soothe the desert in his lungs. So close, it was so close he could just _taste _it -

Then the pain began. Though it was short-lived and was only a pinprick in comparison to his later ordeal, Mello had to bite his dried lips hard to stop himself screaming. Bursts of fire infiltrated his skin, before being being quenched by the true nature of the water. His thrashing settled to a choked yell, and Matt dragged the thin streams of water along the entirety of his friend's form. Smoke rose from the baked, splitting leather, but the plastic was cool when Matt's finger touched it. It wasn't much but it was a start. He watched Mello, who shivered before closing his eyes. The rise and fall of his chest evened out, and though he still trembled, the frenzy was absent; Mello was asleep.

Matt exhaled slowly, and, unable to look at his companion anymore, turned to stare out of the window. The world was dark, save for shards of stars splitting the early morning. It was cold, too. He stood. Water washed the blood from his hands, and he took a second to appreciate the situation; if someone walked in, it would look like he had killed a man. Matt smiled. How ridiculous, how amazing.

But there was something in the air that was absent from his head. Clarity. But it was alright, he'd done the right thing. The favour was going to be a long one to repay, but he'd started. That was all that could be asked of him, and that was alright too.

Matt's phone was still in his jacket. He dried his hands on a coarse towel and slid on his gloves. On lonely nights beforehand, where he was all alone and up to his neck in either zombies or car parts, only one friend had ever been there for him. He'd never been let down. Patting the rear pocket of his jeans, he tapped his phone with one hand. It was going to be a long day, and he needed to prepare accordingly.

"Hello?"

"Hey. I'd like to order a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese."

* * *

When he awoke, a slice of pepperoni was stuck to his cheek. Pushing back his goggles with a groan and rubbing his sleep-crusted eyes, Matt yawned. It was then that a fly decided his open maw was a good place to land.

"Ergh!" He spat it out; the black speck flew away, it's manic buzzing a mocking laugh. Rushing to the sink, he spat again, tongue lolling as he grimaced. Mouthwash, the stinging acid left in little plastic bottles, wasn't enough to remove the taste of _gross_. He blinked at his reflection, peeled the pepperoni from his face and cheese strings from his chin, and promised himself he would never abuse his baby in that way again; he'd always finish his pizza before sleeping. Always.

Through the window, hard sunshine blocked everything but the tips of skyscrapers in the distance. They were like pencil nibs, tiny and sharp and intruding on the horizon's canvas. The events of the previous night returned to him like strokes on paper. Being stuck behind the steering wheel for hours and hours, and the cramps in his back. The half-dead body beside him, and the blood it came with. Mello. The repaid favour.

With a deep breath, he looked into the bathtub. The world looked greyer in the daytime, as if the sun sucked the life from everything not as brilliant as it. It was nothing but an envious vampire. Matt preferred to walk when the sun hid, as the air was cooler and people were simply not around. Sure, the night sucked life too, from the people stabbed in alleyways to the deprived souls needing to rest each evening, but at least it didn't pretend otherwise.

His friend was still, and likely asleep. Or unconscious. Matt didn't know, he wasn't a doctor, but the man looked very much _not dead._ That was all that mattered in his diagnosis.

Streaks of drying blood sat on the white acrylic; it seemed the water had missed them. He touched Mello's face - the plastic had hardened a little, and though the man was sweating, he wasn't shaking. That was a good sign.

His mother had always said sleep was the best medicine, so Matt pulled himself out of the doors, locked entrance to the room, and began searching for his red Chevelle through the grimy windows lining the corridor. Then again, his mother was always caked in make-up and trying to get him to sleep; she wore those fishnets so torn and tight that her flesh bulged beneath the cords when she offered such sage advice. Maybe he wouldn't let Mello sleep for too long.

When the receptionist began talking to him, Matt shook the image of his mother's puckered lips and lipstick-covered teeth from his mind.

"What?"

"I said, is your friend alright?" The youth looked surlier than he had last night. Sweat stained his shirt, and the bags under his eyes were large.

"He's not dead, if that's what you mean." Matt sauntered past, hands wedged into his pocket, his last cigarette smoking between his lips. His hair was rumpled and he knew it, yet the look on the cashier's face showed that he'd seen worse in the mornings. "Say, you got a breakfast menu? I'm starved."

The boy gave Matt a look. "Weren't you the one who ordered pizza at yesterday evening? Room 4D?"

Matt smiled sweetly, but his voice was cold. "I don't see how that's any of your goddamn business. Is there a breakfast menu or not?"

The youth stared at him, and then, as if giving up a secret worth more than his weight in gold, dejectedly jerked his thumb to the right. "Free breakfast for overnight lodgers 'til eleven."

Matt didn't bother with a thank you, only licking his teeth when the cashier muttered something about "those fuckin' Brits." At least that laid an important question to rest; he hadn't entirely lost his accent during the two years he'd been in the States, even though it was nothing but a twang under acquired American pronunciation. Whether this was a good or bad thing didn't matter, because the bacon and cheap coffee smell was everywhere and it was heaven. Matt patted his stomach through his jacket. The smirk did not leave his face until a bacon sandwich was inside him and his hands were against the doors of his car.

The trip took less time that he thought; he'd only gone to the store because the gas stations were deserted of what he sought, as they sometimes were that early in the morning. Two bottles of Old Crow, three tubes of Savlon, a pack of aspirin, a pack of Camel's (they were out of Marlboro's), a plain cheese sandwich, and a bottle of water only cost him forty dollars - stolen of course. The credit cards and IDs in his pockets were false, but they worked just fine. He was back at the motel within the hour, unlocking the door with one shaky hand, a brimming brown bag resting in the other. The door opened a crack, held in place by the rusty chain; he was certain Mello had roused, unless that idiot from the counter was in here and messing with the room. Sliding a hand in and unlatching the door, Matt puffed a streak of smoke into the room.

Two steps in, he turned to hit the lights and - something cold and hard and metallic pressed into the curve of his neck.

"Hey Mells," he said, unflinching. "So this is how you greet your Lord and saviour. Interesting."

The gun receded, and a hoarse "you should fucking knock," was his only answer. Matt turned to see a walking corpse staring at him. One narrowed eye was blue and bright and angry, and Mello's mouth was pressed into a pale line. The rest of his face was covered by singed hair deliberately thrown to one side. Red skin directed Matt to one conclusion; the idiot had prised off the gas mask himself.

Matt placed the goods on the worn counter. It was supposed to be granite or something, but it better resembled an old rock. "How're you doing?"

Mello lowered himself onto the couch, staring at the gun in his hands. "Not good." He couldn't speak, only rasp.

"I bought lunch: a cheese sandwich and water. They're doing breakfast in the cafe if you want something hot - fuck."

The older boy chuckled so quietly that Matt thought he was crying for a moment. Yet the laugh turned to a wince instantly as the cracks in his face oozed. "I need your help. I need things."

"Hm? What kinds of things?"

"Ice. And salt. Sea salt if you can find it."

"What are you planning?" Matt raised his eyes to stare at the back of Mello's head, trying to deduce his friend's train of thought. "You should go to the hospital when you can walk and talk better. I can drive you there, and they'll patch up all _that_ and stop infection before -"

"No. I'm not going." He coughed violently, stretching his tender skin and bringing tears to his eyes.

"Okay okay, I'll go for another run. Here's your stuff. You gotta lie down if you feel shitty." He handed him the paper bag sans one bottle and the cigarettes. "Whiskey, pills, food, and water. You can thank me later by calling me Jesus Jeevas."

"Matt, shut up." Mello took the bag, the gun in his hand too heavy.

"Whatever, dude." After a quick pause, he turned to face Mello, offering one more thing. "My PSP's in the bottom if you wanna kill some time."

"I'd rather sleep."

"Good. Don't want you fucking up my record on Virtua Tennis anyway." Mello wasn't listening. He rifled through the bag, pulling out the water bottle and tentatively sipping from it. One taste was all it took; he chugged the contents in ten seconds, breathing hard when finished. Matt only stared. "I'll get more water too. Damn."

The second run was more time consuming: sea salt was impossible to find in the smaller stores. He had to enter Walmart, and thanked the Lord for mass consumerism and chain stores that carried all kinds of strange things. Who the fuck needed sea salt on a daily basis, anyway? As much as he wanted to pick up a luminous backscratcher emblazoned with Mario's face, or a new pair of earphones stamped with the Tri-Force, he held back. Who knew how long he and Mello would be out of work, and though he had some resources, it was nowhere near enough to go spending like there was no tomorrow. The friendly form of Umbrella Girl peeked through a background of blue, and he heaped three sacks of Natural Sea Salt into his cart. The ice-cubes would likely melt on the way back, so he settled for a handful of ice-packs and frozen peas, hastily running everything through the self-service machine and into his car. Then he went back for the headphones.

"Hold on," he murmured, turning up the radio as the Chevelle zoomed through the busy streets. Swerving to the steady pulse of electronica was something else, and despite being in a strange city just like all the others, the young man found himself smiling.

Upon his return, he rapped on the door three times before deciding he would not do that again, ever: the damage to his knuckles wasn't worth feeling like Gordon Freeman for all but two seconds. There were three long minutes before the door opened.

"That was quick," was the hoarse welcome.

"Call me the Flash."

Mello took the ice and salt and nodded his thanks. "You can go."

"What?" Matt glanced at his friend, his hands reaching for the PSP on the table.

"You heard me." There was a pause. Matt didn't do uncomfortable silences, so this couldn't be one.

"You mean for good." Mello was silent. His hand curled around the salt sack as he turned towards the bathroom. Unease rippled through the other boy, a wave of ink in his veins that faded as quickly as it arrived. "Alright. Let me at least stay a few minutes and get my shit and call the boys back home."

"Do what you want." The bathroom door slammed shut; there were squeals and scratches as the locks were wedged across. Matt walked around, humming to himself, before throwing his belongings into a plastic bag and hovering beside the door. He opened it, and yelled out a final goodbye.

"Later, asshole! Consider the favour repaid."

Matt closed the door and sat on the couch, waiting. For what he didn't know. Whatever his idiot friend was planning, it was his job to - yet it _wasn't_ his job. It wasn't his goddamn responsibility, but there he was. It was the Wammy's Curse. If it was Near - but he wasn't stupid enough to blow off half his face. But if it _was_ Near, or Jackson, or Livre… he would still do the same thing. _Fuck Wammy's_, he thought, clicking on his Nintendo DS and sliding the volume to silent.

Thirty minutes passed and nothing happened. His fingers ached comfortably and Luigi had crossed Worlds One to Three in record time, but that was all. Matt knew what the ice was for - cool down the affected area and peel off the pain, easy as pie. It's likely what Mello was doing - hell, that's what he'd be doing if it were him. Cool down, then worry about the wounds. It hit him then, what the salt was for.

The screaming began as his thoughts clicked.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. He'd been saying that a lot recently. And it took a good amount of strength not to bust the door down and - and what? Would he yank Mello out of the saltwater bath, out of the substance that would scorch his burns whilst cleaning them? Just how much did he saturate the water anyway? God damn it, why had it taken him so long to figure it out? If he'd known before, he could've stopped the idiot from doing it. All he could do now was yell and curse. Matt realised he wasn't as sharp as he used to be.

It was ragged and raw, the screeching, and the worst part was that Mello still tried to hold himself back. Matt had once gotten salt in a knee wound when he was what, seven? Hot needles had been twisted into the cut for three seconds. Then the pain faded because Roger had emptied a tub of water over it, swilling out the salt. He tried to imagine that pain all over his body, and failed. But

Matt's imagination may have failed him on the grounds of the magnitude of pain, but he also remained unaware that the determination that'd kept his friend going for so long was dwindling.

When Mello moved, arching his back to free the cries in his throat, the coarse, scrabbling water raked its nails over his skin, tearing at hot flesh, ripping through fiery nerves - first the melted plastic took his skin, then the water scraped at what was left. God, a hundred thousand slits of his skin would be a blessing in the face of this pain, where every breath stirred something abominable inside him. The maggots of pain bit at his skin and ate his flesh and wriggled underneath his goddamn mind, until salt water leaked from his eyes and his throat hurt. He tried to hold himself back in case anyone heard, but there was no-one left to hear him. The pain took his control; he screamed relentlessly.

When Matt couldn't take it anymore, he picked up his bag and closed the door behind him.


End file.
